Aftertaste (33 page)

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Authors: Meredith Mileti

BOOK: Aftertaste
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Before Chloe was born, Jake and I used to volunteer in a soup kitchen near St. Mark's Place in the East Village on our days off. Mostly, the food we prepared was simple stuff, making a couple hundred peanut butter sandwiches at a clip, or dumping a dozen cans or bags of stuff into a twenty-gallon soup pot, using whatever was on hand in the kitchen to feed as many people as possible. It wasn't the kind of thing that required any sort of culinary ingenuity or skill, but one look at the satisfied expressions on the faces of New York's cold, hungry, and homeless come supper time on a winter's night, and you would've thought we were Eric Ripert and Alain Ducasse dishing up
homard thermidor.
The place is still there, and even though it's after nine, there's a line coming out the door. Despite the fact that it's June and the days have been warmish, the impending chill of a late spring evening threatens, and the place is full of people looking for a decent meal and a full stomach to help fend off the cold and the damp. It's been over a year since I've been here, but I enter through the alley door, don a stained and tattered apron, and join the volunteer cooks. “Yo, lady, long time no see,” says a man wearing paper slippers, whose name is Boulie, as he raises his fist to mine.
“Hey, Bo, how are you?” I say softly, touching my knuckles to his. “What do we need?”
“I got some sammiches going on over here, and we got a big casserole over there, needs some finishing. Jump on in,” Boulie tells me, wiping his hands on his apron and flashing me a smile. That's how it is here. No one ever assumes anything or expects you to show up, but there's always room for one more, and they're always glad to see you.
Tonight the kitchen crew consists of Boulie, a couple of white kids sporting dreadlocks and wearing NYU tee shirts, and an older woman named Mary, whose hair is dyed an unnatural shade of aubergine. Mary is probably pushing eighty, although she's taken some pains to conceal it. She smiles warmly at me when I show her how to chop the pile of old onions she's busy working on. The trick is, I tell her, to keep the root intact, anchor the tip of the knife on the chopping block, and move only the back end of the blade. Her mouth widens into a big, round “O” revealing no teeth, just a mouth full of tender, pink gums the color of pencil erasers.
We work more or less silently, the two young kids and Boulie moving to the steady beat of reggae music piped in through a small, cheap boom box stained and spattered with tomato sauce. I set to work chopping several heads of wilted celery. The casserole Boulie mentioned is several pounds of graying, chopped meat, browning in an ancient cast iron skillet and halfheartedly tended by one of the two boys. I sauté the mound of celery, throw in some of Mary's onions, and, a couple of carrots later, it's approaching palatable. Because little here is ever fresh, the challenge is to make something out of the donated castoffs. When I was at Grappa we, like many other successful restaurateurs, had done our part, donating bread and rolls and leftovers, things we couldn't recycle or sell, to the various soup kitchens around the city.
I wonder if Jake's kept up this practice, and if Boulie knows whether or not he has. More likely, consistent with the philosophy of never having any expectations, nobody here knows, or cares, where any of this stuff even comes from. It is a challenge to serve a meal here, but no more so, I suppose, than it is to eat it.
After a couple of hours, my legs begin to ache, unaccustomed as I've become to standing so long on my feet. The knife slips and I slice my finger, a ragged cut made worse by the dull blade. “Shit!” I cry, looking around for the nearest kitchen towel to staunch the flow of blood, but seeing nothing, shove my finger in my mouth. Boulie comes over and, laying a hand on my arm, leads me to the first aid station.
“Come on, lady, take a load off,” he says, easing me into a plastic lawn chair. He dons a pair of latex gloves and crouches in front of me.
The taste of my own blood, gray and metallic, lingers in my mouth. Boulie swabs my finger with an alcohol wipe and brings it close to his face to examine the wound.
“This is some cut. On a regular person, this'd need a stitch,” he says solemnly, holding my hand carefully in both of his.
Boulie takes my cut hand and gently forces it upward. “Keep it up, stop the bleeding,” he says, standing to rummage in the first aid kit. “One of them butterfly bandages, that's what I'm looking for.”
“What do you mean ‘a regular person'?” I ask.
“You a cook,” he says, opening the bandage and kneeling again at my feet. “Cooks is tough,” he says, leaning close to apply the bandage to my finger. “Look at these,” he says, reaching over to take both my hands in his. He turns them over and with one latex-sheathed finger traces a knife scar that runs between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand. And then, he edges the sleeve of my shirt an inch or so up my wrist, revealing the half dozen puffy red welts where I'd been spattered by the scalding milk a couple of days ago. Boulie takes off his gloves, tosses them into the wastebasket, and splays his fingers out in front of him, displaying his own large, scarred hands.
He stands and raises his apron to his face to wipe his brow. “Go on home. It's close to midnight, and you shouldn't get that finger damp. Give it a rest. Keep it up, know what I mean?” He gestures with his arm, raising it and patting the elbow.
“Thanks, Boulie,” I whisper, standing on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I'll see you again.”
“I'll be here. As long as people keep eating, I'll keep cooking.”
chapter 29
The meeting, scheduled for 10:00 a.m., is being held in a private residence at Trump Soho, just upstairs from where I'm staying. I wake early and force myself to be content with the in-room coffee service until at least seven thirty when I can reasonably call Hope. I'm hoping she will invite me over to my old apartment for coffee, but there is no answer when I call. I'm considering going out to the Beanery, or one of my other favorite breakfast haunts in the West Village, but then think better of it; I'm not sure I trust my resolve to stay away from Grappa, should I be that close, and after the pain of Il Vinaio last night, I'm not sure I'm ready. So, I order breakfast from room service and sit in bed flipping channels, munching croissants, and making crumbs all over the six hundred–thread count Frette sheets, until it's time to change into my J. Crew pantsuit and venture upstairs.
When I get off the elevator on the eleventh floor, I am immediately met by a tall blond woman wearing an expensive-looking sheath and sandals with five-inch heels the width of toothpicks. She greets me by name and ushers me through a door into a large, well-appointed living/dining suite. A long table is set with an enormous, oiled olive wood bowl filled with dozens of perfect looking green apples. A few fanned AEL brochures grace each end of the table. The sideboard is laid with a series of domed chafing dishes, cut crystal flutes, carafes of juices, and buckets of champagne. Without asking me, she pours me a glass of champagne, and then, hand poised over the selection of juices, she turns her megawatt smile my way and asks, “Bellini or Mimosa?”
Just then, the door at the far end of the room opens, and three men enter. Two men I don't know, and Jake. It hadn't occurred to me to wonder if Jake would be here—or worse, Nicola—although I suppose it should have. For a second I look around frantically, fearing she may follow him through the open door, but she doesn't. I reach for the flute. “Thanks, I'll just have it straight up,” I tell her, taking the glass and downing a hefty sip as Jake and the two men advance upon me.
“Good to see you, Mira,” Jake says, extending his hand and not quite meeting my eye. As I reach for his hand, Jake pulls me toward him and kisses me perfunctorily, once on each cheek. His lips feel foreign, abrasive on my face. Gone is the instant familiarity. He looks older, tired, tight around the eyes. But the oddest thing about him is the way he's dressed: pressed camel-hair trousers, a laundered white button-down, a beautiful cashmere sweater the color of a ripe cantaloupe, and a pair of well-shined Italian loafers. In fact, all three of them look as if they've stepped out of the pages of the Sunday
Times
Men's Wear section, dashingly rumpled. The Jake I know is just rumpled—hold the dashing.
“Mira, this is Marcus Drexler, head of the AEL Syndicate, and his partner, Jasper Hilliard. Marcus, Jasper, I'd like you to meet Mira Rinaldi,” Jake says, “my ex-wife.”
“Mira, what a pleasure. Thanks for coming,” Marcus says, extending his hand. His manner is easy, as if we were meeting at a cocktail party, which, given the fact we are all holding crystal champagne flutes at ten o'clock in the morning, we might as well be. Once the introductions are complete, Marcus ushers us into the living room where he gestures for me to have a seat.
“Welcome home, Mira. I trust you were comfortable last night?”
“Yes, of course,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
“Nice little spread we have here, isn't it?” he asks, gesturing around me into the room. “Arthurs E. Lybrant has its accounting offices in the financial district, of course, but we actually prefer to meet with clients and potential investors here, where the atmosphere is more casual and intimate. We believe that food is a very personal issue and that each restaurant in our syndicate is a unique member of the AEL family.”
Marcus then gestures to Jasper, who dims the lights and flicks a switch, which triggers the release of an overhead screen behind me. Jasper hands me a slick brochure, along with a leather portfolio containing a pad and a pen, in case, he tells me, I want to take some notes during the video.
The presentation is an expensively produced, half-hour montage with a music overlay and beautiful panoramic shots of the syndicate's various restaurant venues, only a few of which—Il Vinaio being one—are open yet. The theme, that our upscale restaurants will be successful in these exciting venues, is persuasive. I try not to sneak too many looks at Jake.
Once the video is over, Jasper appears behind me and flips through the brochure he has given me, pointing out the various restaurant “concepts,” complete with floor plans, chefs' resumes, and proposed menus. It's impressive. Clearly they have been getting advice from industry professionals, people who understand Grappa's market—at least from the logistics end.
“Mira,” Marcus says, standing up. “Let's sit and discuss some of the particulars over a little breakfast, shall we?” Suddenly, he is at my elbow. Jake walks ahead of him to the sideboard where he begins filling a plate.
“Please,” Marcus says. “Help yourself.”
“It's rather intimidating feeding chefs, you know, but we've done our best,” Jasper says, with a self-deprecating smile.
And they have. Eggs Benedict, served in perfectly steamed artichoke hearts, with slices of thick-cut, grilled pancetta and a hollandaise sauce the color of a Cézanne sunrise; lush, tender strawberries with clotted cream and muscovado sugar; warm croissants; handcured smoked salmon; and coffee in heated mugs.
I've already eaten, but I fill a plate anyway, just to be polite. I take a seat across from Jake. I am instantly reminded of the last time I sat across from him at such a table—the day I lost Grappa. I push my plate away.
“We hope you'll have a chance to stop into Il Vinaio while you are in the city. The pictures in the video really don't do it justice,” Jasper says, balancing a forkful of eggs.
I can feel Jake's eyes on me. “Great. I'll be sure to drop by,” I tell him.
“Mira,” Marcus begins, “I'm sure I don't have to tell you how difficult it is to run a successful restaurant these days, particularly in this challenging economy. There is an operating side to it where you and Jake are the experts—and there is also a business and marketing side. What our group does is remove the burden of business and marketing, and minimize the risks. Part of our job—what we feel we do best—is to identify the talented operations people, people like you and Jake, and make it easy for you to do what
you
do best. We organize the financial aspects. We buy restaurants, retool and reorganize, and identify potential investors, all with the goal of generating additional capital to invest in alternate ventures in untapped or unsaturated markets. Since we bought Grappa at the end of last year, its profits have increased substantially.”
“Really, how interesting. I've heard—” I begin.
Jasper smiles. “I know, I know. You've seen the review in the
Times
. Look, Marcus told you part of what we do is retool and reorganize. It's a process not without its share of growing pains. The bottom line is that when you normalize the numbers by taking out the nonrecurring setup and organizational expenses, we've been able to increase Grappa's profit margin. Here,” he says, opening a packet of papers in front of me. “Take a look at the normalized first-quarter earning statements; see for yourself.”
I look at the highlighted portions of the spreadsheet, which shows a profit margin of forty-three percent.
“A ten-percent increase in profits in the first quarter. That's impressive,” I tell him—and it is.
“And first-quarter profits, particularly in the restaurant business, are, as you know, typically the lowest, reflecting the post-holiday slump,” Jake interjects.
Of course I'd known that. Who does Jake think taught him that? I stare at him, my eyes flashing. I'm also piqued because I now know where Jake got the money to buy me out.
Marcus continues. “By investing some of Grappa's capital, and with the help of some investors—Jake and Tony Marsden among them—we have managed to open Il Vinaio. And already at this juncture, we've been able to attract several additional investors, so that we envision being able to open three more restaurants within the next eighteen to twenty-four months: one in Vegas, one in Miami, and one in Napa.”
The Napa Valley is the second greatest restaurant region outside Manhattan—and every American chef's dream. I'm momentarily overwhelmed with thoughts of Grappa's country home. A lovely kitchen garden overlooking a nearby vineyard, a small cooking school where I could retreat with Chloe during the winter to teach, sip wine, and pick fresh herbs.
“I can see that one got you, didn't it, Mira?” Marcus says, resting a hand lightly on my arm. “Look, what we see in Grappa and Il Vinaio is a brand, with you and Jake here as the primary concept people. By virtue of your initial investment, you will become a shareholder in the company—both as an owner and a manager at the restaurant syndicate that owns Grappa and Il Vinaio. Once we launch these other restaurants pulling on the Grappa/Il Vinaio brand, the profits will grow geometrically.”
I sit back in my chair and consider Marcus, who has paused to spread some clotted cream on his croissant. He holds it aloft for a split second before popping it into his mouth, chewing with the abandon of one who enjoys his food. Where just a few months ago I'd glimpsed a life without Jake or Grappa in the nearly empty loft, I can now see myself, without the slightest effort, back here in the city. I roll the idea around, tasting it, savoring the latent burst of possibility lingering like a flavor in the back of my throat, the Napa offshoot, the cooking school Jake and I had dreamed of, my life here, in this city.
“Okay, here's the financial piece. The cash we are asking you to invest will be paid back within the first eighteen months. The financial plan calls for a cash down payment of only $72,000, plus a $288,000 loan, for a total of $360,000. We are having a closing with the Sixth Street Bank at the end of this month. For our first-tier investors who join us now, we negotiated an interest rate of just 6.8 percent, so debt service is minimal—under $20,000 per year. Of course, we cannot make guarantees, but based on our projections, which have already been blessed by our accountants and the banks, within the first eighteen months you will have recovered your initial $72,000, plus covered initial debt service on the loan. After that, you will be getting returns on the bank's money. Assuming that you use that to pay down the principal on the bank loan, the entire loan can be paid down within four years. At which point you can sit back and reap pure profits.”
Marcus is watching me intently. Slowly and delicately he removes a stray wisp of cream from the edge of his mouth and continues. “Listen, we know this is a lot to digest. Take a few days. Take a close look at the financials.”
“I'm not a financial expert. I'd like to have my lawyer review them.”
Marcus smiles winsomely. “We wouldn't have it any other way. Have your lawyer review everything. I'd also be happy to put him or her in touch with our financial people—the accountants who helped put this together. We think the papers speak for themselves. Just tell your lawyer not to delay. One of the reasons we flew you in on the weekend is because we've got less than two weeks left until the closing for first-tier investors, and we wanted to give you the opportunity to participate on the best possible terms.
“Of course, your investment will also yield you a voting interest. You will be in the unique position of being an owner, as well as an employee. We will of course pay you a salary as executive chef at Grappa, which should more than cover your living expenses pending the increasing returns you will enjoy as the syndicate grows. As a parent of a young child, I'm sure it will give you great comfort to know that the modest investment you make now will generate substantial returns for years to come. It could fund your daughter's college education, graduate school, a beautiful wedding—whatever the future holds.” Marcus pulls out his wallet and slides over a sheaf of plastic-coated photos of three towheaded children. “I know my kids are first on my list,” Marcus says.
“Mira,” Jasper says, turning to me. “We are not just recruiting you to be an investor—with returns like this, recruiting investors is not our biggest challenge. We need you at the helm at Grappa. We never intended Philippe to be a long-term solution. He's a talented chef, but he doesn't represent the Grappa brand. You do, Mira.
You
are Grappa.”
The meeting concludes shortly thereafter with the exchange of contact information. I've given them Jerry Fox and Avi Steiner's contact information and arranged to have the papers sent over first thing Monday morning. I've heeded Ruth's advice and agreed to nothing, other than to look at the various documents AEL has promised to send me. I make a mental note to call Jerry Fox the minute I'm alone.
“Mira, wait a minute,” Jake says, stepping out to the elevators and pulling the door to the suite shut behind him. “There are some things I'd like to discuss—regarding Grappa.”
“Yeah, like what?” I tell him, spinning around on my heels. Despite the headiness the offer has induced, I'm still stinging from the news that Jake sold Grappa to a third party right out from under me.

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